The Naked Year (19 page)

CONVERSATIONS

The wind swept in white snowstorms, the fields were covered with white powder, snowdrifts, the cottages emitted a gray smoke. That spring was already long since passed, when, with a prayer, with their families on carts, the peasants rode for three days to plunder the gentry estates–during that spring gentry's nests flared up like red roosters, and were completely burned down forever. Then kerosene, match- es, tea, sugar, salt, provisions, town foot- and body-wear vanished–in death throes the trains jerked; dying in the agony of death the multicolored monies began to dance–the lane to the station was overgrown with plantain.

The snow fell for two days, there was a hard frost, the wood turned gray, the fields turned white, the magpies began to chatter–with the frosts, winds, snow, Zlatopoyas Dobrynya went bald–the road after the first fall of snow lay soft, smooth. In that winter contagion swept persistently like a black shroud through the cottages, it poured out–typhus, smallpox, colds–and when the road was ready for sleighing, the coffinmakers came, they brought the coffins. The day was on its way towards dusk, gray, the coffins were of pine, of all sizes, they lay on the sleighs, in heaps, one on top of the other. At Chornye Rechki they saw the coffinmakers from the outskirts, by the outskirts women met them. The coffins were all bought up within a single hour. The coffinmakers measured the women with a sazhen-long stick, and allowed a quarter extra. First to come up and talk business was the old man Kononov-Knyazhkov.

“What's the price, then, roughly?” he said. “Coffins, y'see, got to be bought…got to be bought–there's a scarcity of them in the town now. I need one, for the old girl, so, y'see…whoever'll need one.”

Then Nikon's wife interrupted old Kononov, began to wave her elbows about, began talking with her elbows:

“Well, the price, then, what's the price?”

“The price–you know, it's 'taters we're after,” answered the coffinmaker.

“We knows you're not after money. I'll take three coffins. Otherwise, if you die, there's trouble. You feel easier.”

“It's one thing to talk about feeling easier,” interrupted Kononov. “You wait, woman, I'm a bit older… Well then, m'dear, measure me–see what size I am, measure me. Dying–everything's in God's bosom, y'see, when it comes to dying.”

The women ran about after taters, the coffinmaker measured up, the lads swung the coffins over their heads–carried them proudly around the cottages, in the cottages the people examined at length the excellence of their coffins, measured themselves against the coffins and stood them on their porches, where it could easily be seen that–some had two, some had three. They turned winterishly blue–deathly, in the frost–snows, the cottages were lit up with tapers, at the backs the gate creaked and women's footsteps–footsteps to the barn for hay for the cattle in the night. Nikon's wife invited the coffinmakers to her place. Cautiously, without chattering, the coffinmakers sold the coffins–in the cottage, having stabled the horses, over tea, shoes off, belts loosened–the guests turned out to be gay dogs, talkative, game for anything. Nikon Borisych, the master, the village chairman, bearded from the eyes down, was sitting by the lamp, splitting tapers, placing them one after another into a horn over the washtub, entertaining his aimiable guests and talking away:

“Now, all the same, ourselves, alone–You die, and the coffin–there it is, to go on a hunt, not to feed the dogs–Rebellion, all the same, troubled times. Soviet power–means that's it for towns. Why our people gather at Sol-Vychegodskaya for salt.

Nikon's wife, in a velveteen sleeveless jacket and homespun skirt with lilac spots, horned the old-fashioned way, with breasts bulging like udders, and a plump, cow-like face, was sitting behind the loom, banging away at her weaving. The torch burned smokily, it lit up the bearded peasant faces, set out in a circle in the semi-darkness and smoke (their eyes shone with the red glow of the torch red light). On the stove, a dozen, one of top of the other, lay the women. In a corner behind the stove, in a pen, a calf was lazily ruminating. Different people kept on coming in–to have a look at the coffinmakers, the others went away–the door was all steamed up, it reeked of the cold.

“The Rail-w-a-y!” says Nikon Borisych with great scorn. “The rail-w-a-y, all t'same! I wisht it was scrapped!”

“It's just hard labor,” answered Klimanov.

“We've no need of it, f'r example,” asserted Grandfather Kononov. “The masters, y'see, need it to travel about to their government departments, or just for visiting. But we, y'see, are out on our own, without any bourgeoisse, I mean to say.”

“The rail-w-a-y!” said Nikon Borisych. “The rail-w-a-y, all t'same, …We lived without it before and survived. Wh-y-y-y-y! …Once a year I used to make the trip to town, all t'same! …I'd loaf about a whole day on the platform, I'd have to untie my bundle about five times: ‘What sort of goods you got, or it's the butt-end for you!' Well, we used to climb onto the roof, …and away we'd go…Stop! –‘What sort of warrant have you got, show me!' D'you think I'm an old woman or something? –He would show his pass. I got angry. Such and such your mother, I say, I'm taking my lads to the Red Army to have a crack at the bourgeoisie, all t'same. I, I say–We're for the Bolsheviks, for the Soviets, and you, obv'ously, are Kom'nists? … He takes off…… all t'same it's annoying…”

Night. The torch burns dimly, the windows of Nikon's hut become dim, the village sleeps its nightly sleep, the white snowstorm whips up its white snows, the sky is dismal. In the hut, in the semi-dark, in a circle by the torch, in shag-tobacco smoke, sit the peasants, with beards from their eyes down (their eyes shine with a red glow). The shag-tobacco smokes, red little fires become dim in the corners, the roof rafters crawl about in the smoke. It's stuffy, steamy for the stove-fleas on the women's bodies on the stove. And Nikon Borisych says with great severity:

“Kom'nists!” and with an energetic gesture (his eyes flashing in the torch light): –“We're for the Bolsheviks! for the Soviets! We want it our way, the Roossian way. We've been under the masters–and that's enough! The Roossian way, our way! Ourselves!

“One thing, f'r example,” says Grandfather Kononov, “we've nothing against him. Let him go. And the factory lads–We've nothing against them–let them stuff the girls, f'r example, and get married, those who have a trade. But the gentry–they's at the end of the line, f'r example.”

WEDDING

Winter. December. Christmas.

The clearing. Trees, enveloped in hoar-frost and snow, gleam like blue diamonds. At dusk the last bullfinch cries out, a magpie rattles its bony rattle. And silence. Huge pine trees have been felled, and the branches lie around like enchanting carpets. Among the trees in the blue murkiness, like sugar paper, creeps the night. A hare hops by stepping lightly, unhurriedly. Overhead the sky–like blue rags with white stars between the tops. On all sides, hidden from the sky, stand Junipers and somber pines, their slender switches tangled, intertwined. The forest noises are measured and eerie. The yellow logs are silent. The moon, like coal, rises above the far end of the clearing. And the night. The sky is low, the moon red. The wood stands like a stockade, forged in iron. The wind roars, and it seems as if rusty bolts are making a noise. The chopped-off branches of the felled pine trees lie in strange positions in the lunar murkiness, like gigantic hedgehogs, and bristle sullenly with their branches. Night.

And then at the far end of the clearing, in hedge-hogs of pine trees, in the moonlight, a wolf began to howl, and the wolves are playing their bestial Christmas, the vulpine wedding. A she-wolf howled lazily and langorously, the dog-wolves licked the snow with burning tongues. The young look sternly askance. The wolves play, jump, roll into the snow, in the moonlight, in the frost. And the leader keeps howling and howling and howling.

Night. And over the village, at Christmas, at the fortune telling, in the stalls, in the forest, in the settlements, before the weddings a bold marching song is heard:

–Chi-vi-li; vi-li-vi-li

Take whomever you wish.

–and to a sad eve-of-the-wedding-hen-party tune, in the name of virginal chastity, through tears, the girls':

Mother could not think how to get rid of her children,

Mother palmed me off one fine day,

One fine day to an unknown house.

Mother ordered me out for seven years.

It's exactly three years since I was at my mother's.

In the fourth summer I'll fly like a bird!

I'll sit by my father in a garden of green,

And father's whole garden I'll water with tears,

I'll chase my grief to the mother who bore me,

My mother walks through new halls,

Calls to her darling children, her dear little night-ingales,

“Get up, darling children, my dear little night-ingales

Someone's sadly sobbing in our garden

Is it not my wretched one from a foreign land?”

The first brother said: I'll go and see.

The second brother said: I'll load the gun

The third brother said: I'll go and shoot.

The youngest brother said: I'll go and shoo-oot!

On the roof–a peak ornament; on the roofridge–a dove; a bridal sheet, pillow cases, and towels–embroidered with flowers, grasses, birds; and the marriage goes on, according to the ritual, embroidered with songs, rhythm, centuries and tradition.

A painting. By the torch-holder is an old man, a torch burns, in the red corner Ulyana Makarova–a bride in a white dress, on the table a samovar, refreshments. At the table–the guests, Alexei Semyonych with the mothers-in-law and fathers-in-law.

“Eat up, my dear guests, who've traveled here,” this is the old man sternly.

“Eat up, dear guests, who've traveled here,” this is the mother, with fear and self-importance.

“Eat up, dear guests, Lesei Semyonych,” this is Ulyana Makarova, with halting voice.

“Ulyana Makarova, have you not caroused with other youths, have you not sinned, is your vessel not broken?”

“No, Lexei Semyonych… I'm a virgin…”

“With what do you, beloved parents, endow your daughter?”

“We endow her with parental blessing, –the ikon of Our Lady of Kazan.”

And the marriage, according to the ritual of centuries, is conducted above Chornye Rechki, like a liturgy–in the thatched cottages, under the awnings, on the road, over the fields, in the snowstorm, in the day, at night: it rings with songs and bells, ferments like home-brewed ale, painted, adorned like the peak on the roof–in evenings blue, like sugar paper.–Chapter such-and-such of the Book of Rites, the first verse and further.

Verse 1.
When the mortgage is taken out, the house inspected, the terms agreed, and the eve-of-the-wedding-hen-party has arrived, then they bring to the husband the goods which the husband is buying, and the mothers-in-law make up the bed with blankets and pillows from the dowry with flowers and grasses and they decide on the the wedding day.

Verse 2.

Verse 3.

“
Oh, mother, mother of mine,

Why do you many me off!”

“I'll not lie down to sleep with my wife–

Where am I to put her?!”

They went to dance, they danced themselves off their
feet,

The girls and women laughed so much that they almost calved,

Oo-oo-oo! Ahhhhhh! Ah! the house is dancing

like a wench

fidgeting back and forth, yelling up to heaven.

“Does the young girl know how to clean a chimney?”

“Does the young girl know how to bind a sheaf?”

“Does the young girl know how to build a nest?”

“They are nobles, they need money. Take the cheese and the cottage loaf, put down the money.”

“Measure me out twenty arshins of cloth.”

Oo-oo-oo. Ahhhh. Oooo. Iiii. In the cottage there's no room to breathe. In the cottage there's merrymaking. In the cottage there's shouting, victuals, and drink–ah-ikh!–and out of the house to the open shed they run to get a breath, chase away the sweat, gather their thoughts and strength.

Night. The stars wink lazily, in the frost. Under the shed roof, in the darkness there's a smell of manure, of cattle sweat. It's quiet. Just occasionally the cattle sigh. And every quarter of an hour, with a lantern, old Aleshka's mother, the mother of young Alexei Semyonych comes–to inspect the cow. The cow is lying submissively, her snout thrust into the straw: the waters broke last night, any time now she'll calve. The old woman looks carefully, nods her head reproachfully, makes the sign of the cross over the cow: it's time! it's time! brownie. And the cow strains. The old woman–at the age-old sign–opens up the back door to let some fresh air in. Outside the door is an empty cherry orchard, in the distance a barn and a path to the barn–in the hay, coated with hoar-frost. And out of the darkness the grandfather speaks:

“I'll go down, I'll go down–I'll have a look. We'll need Yegor Polikarpich, Yegor, the squinting wizard. The cow's pining, pining, fading away, the cow…”

“Run, grandfather, run dear…”

“What do you think I'm doing? I'm going. And you stand by. It's frosty.”

Under the shed roof it's dark, warm. The cow is sighing heavily and lowing. The old woman lights up–two hooves are sticking out…The old woman crosses herself and whispers… And grandfather trots through the fields to the forest, to Yegorka. Grandfather is old, grandfather knows that if you don't leave the lane the wolf can't touch you, now already ferocious and mean. Under the shed roof on the straw the wet calf lows and kicks. The lantern burns dimly, lights up the stakes, the partitions, the hens under the roof, the sheep in the fold. Outside there is silence, peace, but the cottage buzzes, sings, dances all the notes and combinations of notes.

And from the Book of Rites

Verse 13.
And when they drive away in the early hours and the guests disperse and in the cottage remain only the mother of the groom and the mothers-in-law, the mothers-in-law undress the bride and lay her on the bed and settle themselves down over the stove. And to the young wife comes her husband and lies down beside her on the bed, embroidered with flowers and grasses and the husband fertilizes his wife with his seed, having broken her hymen. And the mother and mothers-in-law see this and cross themselves.

Verse 14.
And on the morning of the following day the mother and mothers-in-law take the young wife outside and wash her with warm water, and after the washing give the water to their cattle to drink: to the cows, to the horses and sheep. And the couple drive to the allotments and coarse songs are sung to them

–The clearing. The trees are laden with hoar-frost and snow, motionless. Among the trees, in the gray murkiness, crackling the twigs, the white grandfather run-trots and in the blue murkiness, in the distance, a wolf barks. The day is white and motionless. And towards evening there is a snowstorm. And tomorrow there'll be a snowstorm. And in the snowstorm the wolves howl.